“That’s my idea. The people on board may be in a bad way. It’s our duty to be of help if we can.”
“I’m with you, but—how about the time, Bill? You father expects us in New York this afternoon.”
Young Bolton banked to starboard, then neutralized his ailerons when the plane’s nose was headed toward the dot on the horizon.
“The airline distance between Miami and New York City is one thousand and ninety-five miles,” said Bill, applying a normal amount of right rudder to offset the torque. “We’re a good deal better than half way now, and we’ve made swell time with this light wind on our tail all the way. Don’t worry, you’ll see the Statue of Liberty before they turn the floodlights on her tonight.”
“Okay. Your father is such a grand guy—he’s been so wonderful to me and my people ever since we cleaned up that Martinengo gang—I’d hate to disappoint him. And especially so now when he is giving me this trip north.”
“I savvy,” Bill replied. “I’m pretty fond of Dad myself—but he’d be the last person in the world to suggest we pass up anything like this, you know.”
He brought the glasses to his eyes again and stared through them for a full minute without speaking.
“The nearer we get, the queerer she looks,” he muttered finally.
“Some kind of a yacht, isn’t it?”
“It is. And a whopping big one. But that’s not the point, Osceola. She’s not moving, yet she hasn’t broken out her breakdown flag at the fore. She isn’t even flying her colors.”